


'cause you get lighter the more it gets dark

by emmamanic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: But try it hey, Clarke-centric, F/M, Literally all in Clarke's head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmamanic/pseuds/emmamanic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone asked, Clarke Griffin would call Bellamy Blake insufferable- insane, controlling, protective, childish, guarded, over the top, irresistible. </p><p>Then again, no one ever asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'cause you get lighter the more it gets dark

**Author's Note:**

> Very short one shot on Clarke's feelings about Bellamy as they've progressed. There's the imprint of sex but no graphic descriptions, which will either make you okay with reading this or disappoint you. Enjoy!

He was something of a mind game.

She would only let herself play it late at night in her tent- when the lights were off and her mind was on, that’s when she’d let herself fall asleep to soothing thoughts of dark hair, dark eyes, dark matter- he was all that mattered, sometimes.

During the day, she would catch herself looking at him. Oh, that mess, what a mess, she had never met anyone, so, hmm, addictive. She was caught, on that nicotine stained boy.

The worst part, the worst damn part was that he wasn’t even an idea- no, he was solid, so solid, and she couldn’t brush this off like she could with Finn- he was all flash, sunny days, he was more of ecstasy, hot bursts that blew her away but left her feeling empty, cold. She had to keep getting hits, dropping her mind at the door, her clothes on the floor, but this.

This was an affliction that she couldn’t shake off. It burned slow, burned hot, and she couldn’t blame anyone but herself when she finally gave up and pushed him against the side of the drop ship, him with his goddamn bedroom eyes all the time, that smirk, his hair, her lips.

She didn’t tell anyone when he grabbed her in the forest and got her well acquainted with his burn- she smoldered, she was sure, mussed up mentality when all they did was make out, somehow, he always gave off the impression of having thoroughly screwing someone over seconds before, and she loved it. How could she not?

Of course, if anyone ever asked, she’d call him insufferable. She’d call him insane, looking at him through the corner of her eye, see him throw her a smirk, yes, she’d say, definitely insane. Then, she’d start smiling and lower her head, fighting the corners of her own mouth, _you traitor_ , remembering the impression of his own the night before, or hour, if they’d gotten the chance, and they usually did.

She’d call him controlling- and that was true. So was she, truthfully, and every night they had a battle- sometimes, of wits, sometimes, of other things. Strangely enough, it always seemed to end in a draw. Protective, she’d say, as he pulled her away from the war, bedroom eyes flashing, as she’d pull back, molten, screaming that this was just as much her war as it was his. And he’d hand her a gun and give her a kiss, so hard, she’d start to buckle but he’d always catch her, stand her steady, then go back to fight.

Childish, she’d say, as he’d break into a smile the second she walked into a room. Like he sees the world through a different set of eyes. It’s brighter, she’d say, he’s brighter- like a child. Maybe that wasn’t the best use of imagery, though, as the things he knew how to do with those hands- well, they were hardly g-rated. 

She’d call him guarded, pulling at the threads of his life, of his story, pulling out a yarn, and he would roll his eyes and pull her closer, saying the past didn’t matter as long as they had now, and they would always, always have now. She’d just blush at his arms and prop him up on the starlight, pointing out the constellations as he nuzzled into her hair. He’s completely too much, all of the time- over the top, she’d spill, always spilling over, staining her clothes, her skin, her memories- her new favorite color.

Irresistible, she would say, but at this point, nobody would be listening, and thank God for that- because she would be staring, slack-eyed, fog-minded, no holds barred, and he would be staring right back. Then, she would make a hasty excuse to leave and he’d drop his weapons without explanation, and somehow, they’d make it out alive. 

And she'd give him a glare, trying to throw off looks of longing when they had much more important matters to attend to but then he'd be kissing her neck. She'd try telling him that, between breaths, between gasps, and he'd rumble his mountain shoulders and throw it off, telling her to live a little. Of course, she'd take that as a challenge, of course, he would too. And she’d call him everything that she couldn’t when others were watching, and he’d smile and call her princess, and she’d lose herself again. 

She'd burst because she could barely hold it in as it was- her heart was too light for this kind of weight. It seemed silly, irrational, she'd mutter to herself, muttering, muttering, waving it off without even the sense of indecency, it was indecent to look at her that way, she'd say, pulling on his wrist, trying to chastise but failing miserably. He knew how to hold her, fold her, had memorized the imprint of her body against the warm cot on cold nights, warm nights, too. And she knows that if anyone ever wondered, she’d tell it all, from the midnight visits to the brightest days, the hours, the minutes, the moments that felt like years.

Then again, no one ever asked.


End file.
